


The Way of the Padawan

by Mithrigil



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Gen, Implied Master/Padawan Relationship(s), Inappropriate Use of the Force, Jedi Code, Multi, Rules, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wakashūdo, fuck implied this shit is all about masters and their padawans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Master must be open to the discussion of carnality and provide avenues appropriate to the Padawan’s exploration. Some Masters fare better than others.</p><p>(Or, in which a lot of Jedi fail at sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way of the Padawan

_Tenet ONE: Sex is a part of life. It is one of many means by which a sentient may come to understand matters of the body and spirit. As with the variegate meditative practices, lightsaber forms, and cultural understandings of the Force, sexual activity can be a viable tool in a Jedi’s path to balance. The act of sex itself shall not be forbidden._

Master Dooku was renowned in the crèches for his impressive height, among other things: Qui-Gon remembers more than one youngling calling Dooku the White Wookie behind his back. When they first began to train together, Qui-Gon came up to Dooku’s chest, though Master and Padawan were nearly of a weight. Imagine Qui-Gon’s surprise when, at sixteen Coruscanti years old, he could not only look his master in the eyes, but--

“Master,” he said, unable to keep from laughing, “I believe you’re wearing my clothes.”

Dooku stopped in his tracks. At least one Temple guard snickered. Perhaps Qui-Gon should have waited for a more opportune moment, or not brought it up at all, but. There it was. And there was Dooku, tense all through the shoulders. His eye twitched. Qui-Gon had seen a great deal of that particular twitch these past two years.

“So I am,” Dooku said, wry and inscrutable. “Are you attached to this particular robe, Padawan?”

“Of course not.” It wouldn’t be unheard of for this to be one of Dooku’s clandestine tests: just last week Qui-Gon spent three hours trying to repair his saber without a conveniently misplaced coupler, while Dooku waited for him to admit that it was missing. And last month he finally stopped guessing how many beetles were on the tree when he realized they weren’t beetles, they were kekaidas, and it had been a Force taxonomy lesson all along. So this was quite possibly a lesson in humility, or composure, or the antidote to one of Qui-Gon’s many well-known faults.

The Temple Guard snickered again. Dooku paused in walking to send him a scathing sidelong glare.

“The shoes, though,” Qui-Gon admitted, “I think yours are too tight on me.”

This time, Dooku did more than glower. He thrust up a hand and gestured Qui-Gon down the nearest corridor. He didn’t have to say anything for Qui-Gon to know well, and change course. Dooku steered him into an empty assembly room, with tall transparisteel windows letting in golden tents of sunlight. His robes billowed in the gust when Dooku shut the door. 

“I appreciate you pointing out the error, Padawan.” Dooku folded his hands behind his back and paced, while Qui-Gon stood just out of his path. “Nevertheless, you would do better to refrain from such crass remarks in public.”

Qui-Gon bowed his head. “Of course, Master. Forgive me.”

“Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise that I have made said error.” Apparently at the end of his circuit, Dooku did not turn around, and stopped at the wall of windows, looking down on the Temple grounds and the city beyond. In such bright light, his loose straight hair was like ice, iridescent and sheer. Glorious. Majestic. Pure. Qui-Gon vowed, not for the first time, that when he was permitted to grow his hair again he’d let it be that long.

And then, lost in the moment, it hit him: Master Dooku had admitted a mistake.

“Master?” Qui-Gon asked, disbelieving.

“I have been avoiding a discussion of some import,” Dooku went on, prompted, and did not move from the window. “For too long, if you’re compelled to make light of it. Qui-Gon. How long has it been since your last medical examination?”

“Since we returned from negotiations on Felucia, Master. Four months.”

“And did the medical droids make any inquiry into your sexual health?”

A cloud crossed the sun, and dimmed the beam that Dooku stood in. Qui-Gon found himself fiddling with the tail of his Padawan braid, catching the bead on his thumbnail. “They did, but there wasn’t anything to report, Master. I haven’t exactly had time to meet anyone.”

Dooku glanced over his shoulder, left eye flashing in the remaining bright light. “And is that why you seem bent on embarrassing me in the halls?”

“Embarrassing? Master, I have no idea--”

“I sense that to be true. You aren’t malicious in your intentions. But the idea that we might have accidentally swapped clothes because of an...illicit encounter; do you find that amusing?”

Qui-Gon calmed himself and searched his heart. True, his Master was beautiful, like the crystal caves, and healthy and strong. And Qui-Gon could not ask for a worthier teacher. But he was also three times Qui-Gon’s age at least, and his smile unsettling, and his kindnesses always had some underlying meaning or portent or lesson. When Qui-Gon dreamed of sex, it was a thing of the moment; not necessarily passion, but not planned. And not toward an end.

“No, Master,” he said honestly. “I am not trying to seduce you.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Dooku sighed, and turned back toward the window. “I’ll call a professional. I expect you to have outlined your preferences and reservations by tomorrow morning. Meditate on this for the rest of the day, clear your schedule for the next ten, and relieve what tension you need to relieve.”

“Yes, Master.” Qui-Gon turned to hide the flush in his cheeks, not that his Master wouldn’t sense it anyway.

“And Qui-Gon?”

“Yes?” he asked, forestalling his way out the door.

“Leave my shoes and robes in my quarters this time, not in the ‘fresher. That way, you won’t mistake them for yours.”

Qui-Gon laughed in sudden relief. “Of course, Master. And thank you.”

*

_Tenet TWO: The Master knows best the Padawan’s needs. A Master must be open to the discussion of carnality and provide avenues appropriate to the Padawan’s exploration. In some cases, the Master may feel compelled to oversee the matter of the Padawan’s sexuality personally; in others, not. The fraternization of Master and Padawan shall not be forbidden._

The chief advantage of having Qui-Gon Jinn for a master was that everyone already expected Obi-Wan to screw up.

It meant less scrutiny, for one thing: a year on the run on (and from) Mandalore, and no one blinked when Obi-Wan slept in Satine’s quarters instead of the cargo hold. Only one room, after all, with a single large cot. Not that Obi-Wan and Satine ever got up to anything--the shuttle walls weren’t exactly soundproof, and in the past months Obi-Wan had already endured by his count fifteen accidental broadcasts of climax just _meditating_ , and Qui-Gon was always smirking and insufferable the mornings after, so the idea of attempted mutuality was, to say the least, unpalatable--but even just sharing a bed with someone outside the constraints of the Order more than once would have created a scandal back on Coruscant. 

Honestly, Obi-Wan thought it would be easier if it weren’t just the three of them on the ship. Maybe if there were strapping young guards. Or if the insurgents sent more attractive bounty hunters.

But no, here they were, in the blackness of space, with Satine’s acerbic wit and lovely blond hair and her dimpled back bared for medical treatment, and Obi-Wan _could not keep his Force-forasken hands from sweating_.

“Obi-Wan?”

He fumbled the bacta patch. It fell on her back, sticky-side up. “Sorry. Just--ah--enjoying the view.”

She scoffed into the pillows. “Admiring your lack of handiwork, or just trying to be smooth?”

The wound was not as ugly as it had been upon infliction, but then, what wound was? What had been a dozen shades of red and gold was now mostly pink, and might have faded entirely by now if she’d gotten to soak in a proper tank. No infection, and no complication, and though the laserburn had been nearly bone-deep that _nearly_ made all the difference. She’d walk again. She’d stand as proud and haughty as ever. And no one but a lover would be privileged to see the scars.

Jealousy pooled in Obi-Wan’s gut like a sickness, low and dangerous. Jealousy, for a hypothetical person he could never be.

He smirked, so she would hear it, and righted the bacta patch to try again. “Neither,” he said. “Your progress is not my handiwork, and I never _try_ to be smooth. I fail, or I succeed.”

“Well it’s clear which one you’re doing,” she sighed. He pressed the patch against her back, the correct side down this time, and held it as gently as he could. His fingerprints form in the gauze, darker and deeper than they should. Satine winced, but didn’t gasp, and shifted her lower body.

He’d seen that in dreams. Fifteen times, by his count. And he’d definitely see it again tonight.

Obi-Wan forced his eyes away. To her hair, maybe. Or the door. Or the Living Force surrounding them, and its litany of _connect, connect, connect_. “It seems I do nothing but fail you these days, your Grace.”

“Hardly,” she said with a faint chuckle. “Was that an apology, Obi-Wan?”

“I suppose, if you need one.”

“Well, I don’t.” Awkwardly, she reached up behind her neck to scratch an itch at her hairline. It looked so soft, like glittering down. He pressed down harder on the patch, staggered forward on the metal grain floor. “Don’t apologize for saving my life. Wait until you lose it.”

“Fair enough,” he said, and let go of the gauze. It grafted to her skin, and she started to sit up. For her modesty’s sake, he turned away as soon as he could, but the curve of her breast was already off the mattress before he remembered. “You should sleep alone tonight. We’ll be in hyperspace another eight hours at least. Get some rest.”

A hand grasped his wrist. Hers, of course. He still didn’t turn around. “You too,” she said. “You need it at least as much as I.”

“I’m not the one with third-degree burns, your Grace.”

She tsked and held his wrist tighter, drumming her thumb against his pulse point. “And I’d like to keep it that way. Rest.”

“After I see my master,” he conceded. The pads of her fingers were so warm, so slick, and he had to get out or they’d cool against his skin like medicine. Like exactly what he needed.

“Fine,” she said, saving him the trouble of pulling away by letting go. He turned back only once, eyes closed, to bow respectfully, and then left the room and shut the door.

Qui-Gon was in the cockpit, meditating on the floor beside the co-pilot’s seat while the astromech kept them on course. Obi-Wan sank down next to him, and wiped his hands on his robes as he knelt. The floor was ice-cold, thank the stars, in this case literally. He cleared his mind, the best he could, and breathed with his Master.

The mysteries of sex were not unknown to Obi-Wan. That time had passed, on Coruscant, years ago, barely months into his tenure as Qui-Gon’s Padawan. He’d been lucky enough for Qui-Gon to notice first, explain why the Force itself seemed out to get him, and bring him to the attention of the Temple specialists in sexual meditation. Since then, all had been reasonably well; Obi-Wan felt free to pursue what few liaisons he could, given the circumstances, and he brought his even fewer concerns to Qui-Gon as soon as they arose.

Generally. This time being the exception.

The astromech went about its work, and the shuttle flew, and the galaxy cast by beyond the hull, and Obi-Wan knew that this feeling was different. This was not sexual desire. This was not something that distance and a hot shower and a lengthy wank could relieve.

“Master,” he said, unable to shield his need and fear from pervading the bond between them.

In the embrace of the Force, Qui-Gon’s presence was warm and solid but open, like a thick cloak that still let in the wind. “You love her,” he said, aloud, or mostly.

“Master--”

“There’s no shame in it,” Qui-Gon laughed, low, rumbling, incisive. “And in your position, it makes perfect sense. She trusts you so deeply, and you feel so responsible. Just be aware of it, Obi-Wan. As long as you go in with your eyes open and your path clear, love itself is not against the Code. If anything, it’s crucial to it.”

“Not that you care what is and isn’t against the Code.” Obi-Wan smirked, and knew that sarcasm had a way of making itself immediately known through the Force, especially around Qui-Gon, who somehow never took it to heart.

“True,” he admitted, just as true to form. “And not that you care necessarily for my advice, when I give it.”

Obi-Wan’s smirk softened to a smile. Already his heart felt lighter, but, to put it mildly, the ship’s floor was warming to him, not cooling him down, and _that_ was not unprecedented either. Arousal, apparently, was just as dangerous at nineteen as at fifteen. He shielded it as best he could. “Master, I do trust you,” he said, and felt the echo of Qui-Gon’s words only seconds before. “Do you...feel responsible for me?”

“Yes, Obi-Wan. And yes, I do hear what else you’re asking.”

“And your answer?”

“Is complicated.”

Obi-Wan curled his fists against his thighs, too sudden and harsh for meditation. “When isn’t it?”

When Obi-Wan cracked open his eyes, Qui-Gon still sat there, in perfect meditative posture, palms placidly open on his knees and even his silver-streaked hair unmoved. But when he spoke, his lips parted, and Obi-Wan was as drawn to them as he was to Satine’s back, breasts, fingertips. 

“I have had two Padawans before you,” Qui-Gon said. “The one I should have loved, I couldn’t, and the one I did may have been better served if I had not. I am a Knight, not a Master, and the Force’s lessons do not cease when your braid is cut. Even now, I think, I am being tested.”

Obi-Wan told himself, firmly, _Close your eyes. Resume meditation. Empty your mind of all but the Living Force._

But the Force itself said, _connect, connect, connect._

“Please, Master,” Obi-Wan begged, eyes still open but downcast on the cold metal floor. “Which am I to you?”

Qui-Gon breathed, twice, long and slow and deep, and did not answer.

*

_Tenet THREE: Desire leads to obsession; obsession leads to attachment; attachment is forbidden. As we caution Padawans to not give in to aggression in their lightsaber training, so must we discourage the aggressive behaviors associated with sex. It is paramount that the Padawan understand that the desires of the body do not rule a Jedi. Exclusive prolonged attachment shall be discouraged, and marriage forbidden._

If it couldn’t be Padmé, it would have to be Obi-Wan. There was no one else.

He saw Padmé in holos as she spoke at the Galactic Senate, in the missives the Jedi council deemed necessary to convey to Obi-Wan in the field. Anakin watched them all. Never mind his complete lack of interest in politics; it was all a circus anyway, and Padmé seemed to know it too. She never came close enough to the recorders for Anakin to see her face, but just from the way she carried herself he knew she was still unbearably beautiful and graceful and strong. The grainy blue lines of the hologram couldn’t diminish her, and even over lightyears of distortion her voice still stopped his heart. She spoke against injustice, championed the freedom of her people, derided any sentient who claimed ownership of anyone else, and Anakin could not stop listening.

R4-P17 shocked him in the thigh. Anakin jumped so harshly that he fell clean off his cot.

“So much for keeping aware of your surroundings,” Obi-Wan said, just out of the ‘fresher and smug as a massif over a fresh kill. He rubbed a small spare towel over his hair and beard, which didn’t erase the smirk at all, and sat down naked and unselfconscious on the cot opposite Anakin’s.

Anakin looked up from the floor, more profoundly embarrassed than he’d been in years, as R4 rolled off to the cockpit laughing in binary.

Obi-Wan leaned forward, an elbow to his knee, his other hand extended to help Anakin up. “I had no idea you found trade agreements so engrossing.”

“I don’t,” Anakin admitted, and got to his feet without taking Obi-Wan’s hand, thank you very much. “I’ll leave that to you, Master.”

“And we’ll both leave the piloting to R4,” Obi-Wan said, apparently not taking any offense at Anakin leaving him hanging. He sat up, bare back against the wall, and indicated that Anakin should sit back down. “That’s the fourth time this trip I’ve caught you on that holo. Have you seen something?”

 _Yes,_ he thought, and _no, not enough._ “No,” he said eventually, because it was truer. He sat back down on the bed, and paused the holocaster. Padmé wasn’t speaking anymore; the debate had passed back to Chancellor Palpatine, just as level and cool as Padmé but not nearly so beautiful. Well-made, perhaps; where Padmé’s loveliness was like the sky, vast and natural and constant even through changes in color and time, Palpatine was like a work of architecture, ancient and majestic but craft all through.

Across the room, Obi-Wan prompted Anakin to go on, and Anakin couldn’t rein in this train of thought.

Obi-Wan was beautiful too: like some ancient god made a schematic for Man, and refined it to perfection. Sitting there in the nude, he looked like an artist’s model or an anatomist’s rendering. A paragon. The creature against which humanity must measure itself, and be found wanting. No matter how quickly Anakin grew, no matter how hard he trained, he might never measure up.

For the second time in as many minutes, Anakin thought, _Padmé or Obi-Wan. There is no one else._

“It’s nothing,” Anakin lied. “I swear it’s nothing.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, folding his hands around the towel. In ten years, Anakin had definitely learned that to people who could see through lies, a lie like this could still be a signal that he didn’t want to talk about it.

It’s just that Obi-Wan never cared whether Anakin wanted to talk about it or not. They would. And on his terms. Invariably.

“I have my suspicions,” Obi-Wan said, inclining forward to look into Anakin’s eyes across the narrow room.

“You always do.”

“And I like to think I’m correct more often than not.”

“Yeah, you _do_ like to think that.”

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Anakin said, slumping, then--wait. “Master, I have no idea what you’re--”

Obi-Wan clicked his tongue and raised a hand to cut Anakin off. “They don’t call me the Negotiator for nothing, Anakin. Calm down. There’s nothing wrong with admiring a lovely being and there never has been.”

“I told you, that’s not what this is about!” Even if it was, it wasn’t, not entirely. He sprung to his feet, and didn’t _mean_ to kick aside the holocaster, but, “I’m not--I’m not lusting after her!”

“I never said you were, Anakin. I only said that she’s beautiful, and it’s all right to think so. And even if you _were_ having sexual feelings for her, it would be--”

“You wouldn’t know anything about it. You wouldn’t understand! It’s so _easy_ for you; you can just flirt with anyone and it glances off of you like it doesn’t mean anything!”

Obi-Wan still hadn’t stood up, never mind that Anakin was pacing and flailing enough to fill this tiny room. He sat there, on the cot, looking up, steady and cool. His damp skin shone, tinged faintly blue and gold by the paused holocaster and the ship’s old lights, and his eyes were level, open, sure.

“Anakin,” he said, the same ugly sighing way he always said it when he expected to be addressed as Master, “sit down and we’ll talk about this. It’s high time we did, at any rate.”

There were much more infuriating things in the galaxy--slaughter and slavery and hatred--but in that moment, Anakin forgot them all. This, this instant, was the greatest injustice he could ever hope to address.

Anakin was nearly nineteen. He had grown up without a father, on an Outer Rim backwater where people were bought and sold. He saw, knew, remembered, pleasure slaves and sex workers of all ages and species, had seen Watto accept sentients as currency, had _been_ currency, even to Qui-Gon. When Obi-Wan had taken him aside at fifteen and explained that, should he wish it, he could be initiated into the mysteries whenever he wanted, with someone who would be compensated handsomely for his sexual education, Anakin abstained. Vehemently. He knew that few chose that life when there were other choices. He knew that no matter how well they were paid, no matter _whether_ they were paid, they were all still slaves. They wouldn’t want him. They wouldn’t love him. They would _serve_ him, and Anakin would never subject a sentient to slavery. So he abstained, and meditated, and took care of himself when he had to, his own slave and his own master and, most importantly, not mastering anyone else.

And here was Obi-Wan, _Master_ Obi-Wan Kenobi the Negotiator, privileged paragon of the Jedi Order and hero of Naboo, calmly about to offer Anakin another chance to slake his _alleged_ lust on someone dubiously willing. Someone detached and desperate and mercenary, bought and paid for.

He swung and punched Obi-Wan in the face.

They were both surprised when it connected. Anakin didn’t strike again, and Obi-Wan didn’t rebound. He’d curled nearly to the wall, his cheek bright pink over the red line of his beard, and took three harsh breaths, but said nothing.

“I am _not_ getting a pleasure slave,” Anakin seethed, both fists still shaking.

One more calming breath, and Obi-Wan’s arm shot out, grabbing Anakin by the wrist and yanking him off-balance. He glowered up into Anakin’s eyes, and before Anakin could swing out again Obi-Wan caught his other wrist and wrenched it behind his back. No pain, not unless Anakin struggled, but immediate subdual, and that was even worse. “First of all,” Obi-Wan said, still level and calm, “I was not going to offer you any such thing. For that matter, it doesn’t work that way on Coruscant, which you would know if you’d paid any attention whatsoever to our first discussion.”

“Let me go!”

“Not until you can guarantee me you’ll conduct yourself the way a Jedi ought. Second of all, do you think I haven’t noticed your frustration? You’ve been stewing since we mustered out, if not longer. I’ve tried to let you handle it yourself, but whatever you’re doing clearly isn’t working.”

Anakin snarled, and tried to wrench himself out of Obi-Wan’s grip again, but between weight and Force he only succeeded in pulling a muscle in his neck. “That’s rich, since I’m doing what you taught me!”

“Really. Because I don’t recall teaching you to _fixate_.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“ _Listen,_ for one thing.” Obi-Wan sighed, but his grip didn’t slacken in the least. “It would be a first. And calm down.”

It took a few tries, but he wasn’t a Star Padawan for nothing: Anakin loosened his jaw, then released the tension from his shoulders, and steadied his breathing as best he could. It would have to do, for now.

“Better,” Obi-Wan said. “Can I let go?”

In the struggle, Anakin had wound up standing between Obi-Wan’s legs, against the edge of the cot. Obi-Wan, still naked and quiescent, looked up at him, candid and steady. Open. The way he had looked ten years ago, when he swore that he would finish what Qui-Gon Jinn had started.

“Anakin. May I let go?”

Candid. Steady. Open. He did not doubt Anakin. He sought assurances, but he didn’t doubt. He let Anakin walk free, and learn, and find his way or make one. He cowed before the Council, to a point, but he fought back when it counted most, and that’s why Anakin was here: because Obi-Wan wanted him. He could have chosen another, could have curried the Council’s favor, but he wanted _Anakin_ , and had never reneged on his choice.

At ten years old, Anakin had misplaced one of Obi-Wan’s borrowed holocrons, which perhaps he shouldn’t have been using in the first place, but freedom was new and intoxicating. And of course Obi-Wan had gotten angry when he found out that Anakin had been responsible, and of course Anakin had been censured and made to apologize to Master Jocasta. But that night, when Anakin begged Obi-Wan not to send him away, Obi-Wan had been so confused, so hurt that it had even crossed Anakin’s mind, and even--if the Force showed true--angry on Anakin’s behalf, at the world that had made him fear that one mistake would cost him everything he loved.

“Anakin?”

“Yes,” Anakin breathed. “Yes, Master. You can let go.”

True to his word, Obi-Wan did. He didn’t move otherwise, but let off Anakin’s wrist and forearm, and let his hands fall back to his knees. Pride and trust emanated through the Force, taking root at the base of Anakin’s brain, real and electric enough to tickle the roots of his hair.

“I know it’s different,” Obi-Wan said, the crisp edge to his voice more authoritative than harsh. “And I know it’s difficult. But please understand, Anakin: I want to help, in any way I can. If you don’t know what you want, or how to ask for it, just let me in, and I promise we’ll figure it out together.”

_Padmé or Obi-Wan. There is no one else._

Anakin leaned down and kissed him. It was equal parts bravado and question, and when Anakin pulled back, he didn’t pull back far. Just enough to make sure he hadn’t done wrong. Just enough to make sure he hadn’t _been_ wrong.

Obi-Wan sighed, but smiled. “You never do anything by halves, do you.”

“I don’t intend to start now,” he said, and leaned in again. This time, Obi-Wan met him halfway.

*

_Tenet FOUR: The vulnerability inherent to sexual practice carries with it associated emotions, often powerful and indiscernible; abstention from sexual practice may likewise elicit emotional outbursts. A Padawan must come to understand desire and its magnitude in order to best focus. Meditation should be encouraged before and after carnal activity._

“She tried to kill you!”

Ahsoka groaned. “Geonosian mind control was involved, Master. You were there!”

“That’s not the point and you know it, Ahsoka.” Anakin paced the room, raking his black synthskin hand through his hair and just leaving it tented there like a spider.

“I’m not sure I _do_ know your point, Master,” Ahsoka countered, crossing her arms, then enumerating on her fingers. “We’ve already had the talk, I’ve been through the meditations, and we both know that Barriss is even more experienced than that. I thought as long as we don’t get over-attached it’s _fine_.”

“And how do you know that’s not gonna happen, huh?” Anakin whirled on her, looming down like this was a practice room, not their private quarters. Ahsoka had to admit that the Hero With No Fear could be a pretty intimidating guy when he wasn’t being a complete idiot instead, but this was _definitely_ the latter, not the former. “How do you know you’re not going to get tangled up because of all you’ve been through?”

“Like you and Master Kenobi?”

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Anakin seemed pretty surprised too, more shocked than angry. He balked up to his full height, eyes wide and cheeks pale, and Ahsoka couldn’t look anymore.

She hung her head. “Forgive me, Master.”

“It’s fine, Snips,” he said. “I deserved that.” Honestly, he looked uncomfortable, not contrite, but Ahsoka chalked that up to her striking a little too close to the truth. She’d pat herself on the back if she could call this argument done. “But it’s different. Obi-Wan and I were older, and he was still my Master then.”

“You mean you haven’t been with any other Jedi?”

“No,” he said, a little quickly. “I haven’t been with any other Jedi. Unless what you’re getting at is--”

“Don’t worry, Master, I’m not interested.” Having sex with Anakin would just be _weird_. Ahsoka wasn’t even sure she was sexually interested in males, let alone this one, and Anakin was possessive enough as it is. Case in point, this conversation.

He grinned, still awkward. “Good, so we’re on the same page.”

She pointed up at his annoyingly cleft chin. “I don’t think so, Master. If you haven’t been with any Jedi your own rank, I don’t think you can know whether I’m ready to be with one of my own.”

“It’s not that.”

“Well then, what is it? ‘Cause from down here it looks an awful lot like you’re stalling.”

He rolled his eyes and went back to pacing, answering only when his back was turned. “It’s Barriss, okay? I’ve got a bad feeling about her.”

“Are you _kidding?_ Barriss is the Perfect Padawan!”

“ _No one_ is that perfect, Ahsoka.”

“Well, you’d know.”

That time, he took it as a joke, and a thankful burst of wry laughter welled up in the tension of the Force around them. Not that it was entirely sarcasm, Ahsoka admitted to herself; powerful as Anakin was, he had all the faults that went along with power, cockiness chief among them. She was convinced that half of her duty as his Padawan was to keep him humble. 

He sighed. “I’m just saying you have to go in with your eyes open, Snips. No one is exactly what they seem. If she’s that perfect there might be something under it. And even if she is perfect after all, she might not be perfect for you.”

“She doesn’t have to be. She just feels right, right now. It’s just sex, with a good friend, and if it leads to something too, um, intimate, we’ll deal with it. But I don’t want to go behind your back about this, Master. Just trust me, okay?”

Anakin sat down in the desk chain, groaning. “She’s not good enough for you, Snips.”

 _Neither is growing up in a warzone,_ Ahsoka didn’t say, because she didn’t have to.

*

_Tenet FIVE: Jedi have no families. If a child is to result from union with a Jedi, it may be carried to term, but thereafter the youngling is a sentient unto themself. A Jedi is no one’s child, nor shall a Jedi claim children._

In the thirty-four years of his storied life, Luke had a great many awkward sexual conversations. He’d bargained with Hutts and had to wear the clothes home. He’d consulted medical droids about the proper methods of extracting cum from his prosthesis. He’d, um, kissed his sister. And the less said about his father, the better. But the sheer, saprogenic dread he felt leading up to _this_ conversation was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

He’d sensed a disturbance in the Force last night. From Ben’s quarters. And Ben wasn’t alone in the disturbance’s creation.

Even on his way to mess, Luke grappled with the potential ways this could go. He could simply take up lecture time and ream out every teenager at the New Temple, but that would probably just give them _ideas_. He could call in all three of the perpetrators at the same time, but that might embarrass all of them beyond reparation. Which left approaching each of them individually, and probably Ben first, because if Luke knew his nephew at all it had been _his_ bright idea in the first place.

There Ben sat, brooding into his empty breakfast tray at the end of the long table of younglings. Luke’s stomach churned. He reached out through the Force in simultaneous greeting and warning, and Ben’s ears pricked up into his shaggy hair. None of the other younglings seemed to notice at first, but once Ben got up and turned around no small few followed his attention. At fourteen, Ben was already taller than Luke (and almost certainly taller than Han by now), but a spindly mess of limbs and overlarge features, and until last night Luke hadn’t thought that the younglings found Ben particularly attractive.

Stars, this was going to be awful.

“Ben,” he said, quietly but clearly enough that the mess chatter didn’t drown him out. “May I have a word with you outside?”

“Sure, Lu-- _Master Skywalker_ ,” he corrected. On the one hand, good: he was setting an example for the younglings, and it was about damn time. On the other, he probably only remembered to do that because he knew he’d be in trouble for something else, and soon. On the other other hand, because clearly this was a Besalisk doing the counting, Ben’s fear was unshielded and palpable, and a pall hung over the Force as Ben followed Luke out of the mess and into the mist-fogged courtyard. Someone had failed to clean up after training, and there were scores and footprints in the earth and scattered stones, and Luke was definitely stalling.

He sat down on the grass and tapped a place at his side to indicate Ben should do the same. Ben scoffed through his nose, but complied.

“This is about last night, isn’t it,” Ben said, bluntly perceptive as ever.

“It is,” Luke agreed. “What exactly were you three trying to do?”

The Force around them throbbed with anger and embarrassment even before the blush soared up Ben’s cheeks. His ears were bright crimson and his neck was fast catching up, and he turned away, wrapping his arms around his knees. “It wasn’t wrong. You _said_ it wasn’t wrong.”

“I said it wasn’t wrong for you to be with them. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Ben sighed, throat rattling so hard it sounded like an electrical malfunction. “Arctas had already done it back on Iridonia. In the flesh, I mean. Physically. And you said that the Jedi used to use the Force to help, with, um, so I thought--” He cut himself off, grimacing and turning back to Luke, just enough to flash his angry eyes. “So I linked us up. And Arctas showed me and Hikra how it works.”

“And how it feels,” Luke added. “And you showed it to anyone who was listening, Ben.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“I know. It was supposed to be private. Most...sex things are, really.” Of all things, Luke’s wrist ached, like his right hand was embarrassed to be part of his body. That might be carryover from Ben, though. Ben couldn’t shield his emotions if his life depended on it. Last night being a particularly egregious example. “But it wasn’t. And that’s not your fault. You just weren’t ready--”

“You don’t get to tell me whether I’m ready or not,” Ben spat. “You’re not my Master.”

This fight again. Wonderful. “No, I’m not, because you’re not anyone’s Padawan yet. And if you _do_ become mine or Master Jarrus’s, you’ll have to answer to us.”

“Not that either of you knows anything about sex.”

 _Charming_ , Luke thought, and let that eyeroll slip through the Force as intended. “Whether that’s true or not,” which it isn’t, no matter what Ben’s heard from the rest of the family, “I _do_ know a thing or two about common courtesy. You’re surrounded by Force-sensitives, Ben. Most of them younger than you. Some of them more powerful. Don’t experiment like that where someone else might get hurt, or see something they shouldn’t see. Or feel something they shouldn’t feel.”

Ben mumbled something into his folded arms. His palpable emotions were a roiled mess, and Luke couldn’t piece through them for a coherent translation.

So he prompted, “What was that, Ben?”

A distinct growl rumbled through the Force between them. “They were gonna break it off with me if I didn’t,” Ben said, only slightly clearer.

Luke’s heart sank, more than a little. “Are you sure?”

“Hikra was thinking about it.” Ben buried his nose in his sleeves, hiding behind the curtain of his hair. “That it’d be easier to just get Arctas alone. ‘Cause it’s harder for all three of us to sneak off.”

_You shouldn’t be sneaking off anyway,_ Luke thought, but possessing just enough tact to negotiate the asteroid field that was his teenage nephew, didn’t say it aloud, and shielded his reservations as best he could. “I know it’s hard,” Luke tried, silently begging for the release of death or at least Obi-Wan’s guidance, “and I know you’re lonely. But that’s part of being a Jedi. That’s the reason the Order forbids attachments; people do dangerous things to keep them.”

Ben looked up, eyes flashing like overheated circuits. “I’m _not_ a Jedi. First you say I’m not your Padawan, then you expect me to act like I am one!”

“That’s not what I meant, Ben.”

“You _said_ it wasn’t going to be like the old Order! You said it _couldn’t_ be that way anymore!” Ben staggered to his feet, the torrent of the Force around him so strong that the grass kept rippling without the slightest wind. “Don’t keep changing the rules!”

“I’m not,” Luke said, standing to stare Ben down, but Ben was already too far gone.

“I thought you’d be _impressed_ ,” he yelled. “I thought I’d figured out something new!

“Ben, the Order is thousands of years old, and the Force has always been here. You’re not the first to use it that way.”

A vision blacked out Luke’s sight and filled his ears: Anakin Skywalker, screaming his hatred into the fires of Mustafar. Luke felt it all over his own body, skin peeling, smoke searing his lungs, and the distant heartbeats of two lovers, one faint and near death, one pounding so hard it broke.

Ben lanced out an arm and shoved Luke with the Force. Unexpected and on the vision’s heels, it knocked Luke back into the courtyard wall, and by the time he’d righted himself Ben had already bolted off into the fog.

Luke slid back down the wall--might as well meditate while he’s down here--and sat, opening himself to the Force. Ben’s tantrums had gotten less frequent in recent years, true, but more intense. Not that this one wasn’t justified. And Luke was clearly being no help at all like this. Maybe he should do the masterly thing and let Ben fight those demons himself. In a cave. In another star system.

It only occurred to Luke, after hours of emptiness, that Ben might have felt the vision too.

*

_Tenet SIX: Esoteric sexual practices are a matter of cultural heritage. It is probable that a Padawan, with growing knowledge of the Force and its applications, may be compelled to refine those applications through intimate praxis. However, in all cases, consent must be established and honored, and compulsion to intimacy is strictly forbidden._

She needed a teacher. She needed _him_.

Kylo didn’t even know her name, but he felt her loneliness (like his), her fear (like his), her distrust and revulsion of the way the galaxy had become. He felt her cold desert nights and heard the emptiness of wind through the slats of a war ruin. He saw the might of the old Empire laid bare like a corpse, and she the carrion who fed on it, not knowing or caring what she dismembered. But it had made her _strong_. Stronger than him, maybe. Strong enough that if she were trained she’d do more than just bodily shove him out of her mind.

She was something better than a Jedi. All of the Force, and none of the banthashit.

He sat in his quarters, gathering himself after Snoke’s admonition. Grandfather’s helmet stared out of the ashes, hooded plasteel sockets somehow piercing deep into Kylo’s soul. He’d never had an easy time meditating, but the hope of feeling closer to the great Darth Vader was enough to make him try. He stilled his body and let himself relive the scavenger’s defense, her reciprocal fear and hatred. She’d seen into his mind. She’d cut into him like an animal, all instinct, not caring what she tore free as long as it hurt him. Lethal. Focused. Passionate. _A perfect Sith,_ he thought, _if the galaxy had any more need for Sith._

He swore he could hear his Grandfather’s laughter, amused and proud. The voice in Kylo’s head was deep and hoarse, a muddle of breath and whispers. _Show me,_ Kylo begged, digging his fingernails into his palm for an anchor of pain. _Show me how to tempt her. Show me how she will fall._

The Force sawed through him, sent his consciousness spiraling into the black. Memories and impressions poured over him like oil on dark water: Grandfather, tempted; Grandfather, kneeling to one master after another, a ring of Jedi, a queen, a true Master: Grandfather, enslaved and enslaved and enslaved. But the chains were links of lies and hypocrisies, looped around him invisibly until he saw them all at once. And once seen, they couldn’t be unseen, and Grandfather refused to accept them.

The Jedi believed that chains were made to be slipped, not broken. Grandfather did not.

Temptation was not freedom. Temptation was a man, an Emperor, robed and crowned, giving Grandfather the strength to win his freedom. No, not giving: _showing_ him the power within. The strength had been there, like it was for the scavenger, and the Emperor compelled Grandfather to find it, to hone it. Temptation was for Grandfather as it had been for Kylo, when Kylo was merely Ben.

The Emperor’s voice was like Snoke’s--all voices were like Snoke’s, this deep in Kylo’s soul--and he said, clear as starlight, _Join me_ , and that was all it took. Grandfather knelt. _Vader_ knelt, freely. Temptation was not temptation at all. Temptation was revelation.

When Kylo opened his eyes, the air was like ash, and he was hatefully and painfully aroused. He sat up straighter, tugged on his cowl, too tight around his neck. The light weighed on him, seared his eyes, and when he covered them with one wide palm it came away slick.

_Don’t tempt her,_ he concluded. _Show her. Teach her._

He reached out to Snoke. Snoke was always there, had always been there, to tell Kylo the truth. _It can be done,_ they both said, together in his mind, a wash of intoxicating confirmation.

He hadn’t felt a smile like this one on his own face for weeks. Years, even. Snoke was smiling too, he knew it, felt it.

Just when the light of the room was getting bearable, Kylo settled back down to meditate again. This time, he just sent his thoughts out to the scavenger. It was surprisingly easy to track her down on Starkiller Base, easier than it had been since Kylo was Ben. He felt her surface fear, her pragmatic survival. He couldn’t see through her eyes, not until he was closer, but like this he could be as insidious as he liked.

He took her fear and sculpted it into his own image. That wasn’t hard at all: she already feared him. She feared the creature in the mask, the monster underneath. She’d seen his fear, but he reminded her that he overcame it. That he _used_ it. That he was strong. That he was skilled, more skilled than she, but her raw power was something to be cultivated.

He told her through the Force, in no uncertain terms, that she could be more than what she was.

It was what Snoke had told him, years ago.

The gravely roar of a comlink snapped Kylo back into consciousness. “Sir? Sir?”

“What is it?” Kylo snapped right back.

“The prisoner’s not in her cell.”

Well, at least that provided an excuse to hunt her down and work his will in person.

After he choked the life out of the stormtrooper responsible for letting her go.

*

_Tenet SEVEN: In matters carnal, as in all things, trust in the Force._

Ahch-To was beautiful in every way that Jakku was not. Rey woke at the same time every morning, to the glare of the rising sun on a world of water. Waves hissed, Wherever there had been desolation on Jakku, there was _life_ here. She could see why Luke had hid here for so long.

“Especially compared to Dagobah,” Luke said, over lunch. (Lunch! More than two meals a day continued to be amazing, and they were all _different_ , depending on what they could catch and how the garden had progressed. And there were _spices_. Luxury untold.) He hadn’t talked much at the start talk much--his voice was as rusty as his hand--but once he started, he wouldn’t quit. “Dagobah’s just one massive swamp. You’ll go someday. It’s where I really got started with my training.”

Rey nodded, swallowing another mouthful of greens. “Have you taken any other students there?”

Luke tensed. The wires in his hand stuttered, a brief malfunction. “No. Not before the school was destroyed.”

_The school was destroyed,_ he said, but his meaning was abundantly clear: _Kylo Ren destroyed the school._

“No,” Luke corrected, as if Rey had said it aloud. “Not just him. I feel responsible.”

In her weeks on Ahch-To, Rey had learned that when Luke’s tone matched that of the whispering water, she was in for a long story.

“I won’t say he was right to do...what he did. But he was right about one thing: I couldn’t remake the Jedi Order. I was never really a Jedi. I was never anyone’s Padawan. I was never knighted. Everything I know comes from ghosts and memories, anything I can piece together from what the Empire left behind. It’s all secondhand and worse for wear.”

“Everything’s secondhand,” Rey said. “Even when there’s a system in place, people are still people.” It had been true on Jakku, certainly; a part was worth two portions one day and a half-portion the next. “I can’t imagine that the Jedi of the Republic didn’t jury-rig together what they could.”

Luke’s beard masked his smile, but Rey could feel it all the same. “You have a point too. We should meditate on this later.”

“Or we could _talk_ about it,” Rey said, smirking back. “Like people.”

**


End file.
